Welcome to Motor City Burning: World of Darkness online role playing game. Due to the graphic, predatory nature of the violence and adult activities Kindred, Hunters, and the Created take part in, we require all players to be 18 years of age or older. If you are at least 18 and would like to play with us, hit the "Register" key and come on in!

Quotes: “I’ve bein’, runnin’, climbin’ and landin’ all over her... this city.And she... sings to me.Ya gonna sing too when I punch ya?”

“Ya can hide... but ya can’t outrun me.”

“A beauty ain’t she?”

*More resently* "I don't know what that means"

Lineage: Ulgan

Concept: Urban Wildling.

Virtue: Charity Chaser knows he is tough but also knows others ain’t as tough as he is, so he most often than not, unless you have given him a reason not to, he’ll help you out of a tight spot with a grin on his face...“Ya guys run, I’ll take care of ‘em…”

Vice: GluttonyHe walks the path of the Titan and not without irony, being a little runt barely passable for an adult is one of those little ironies, but the same could also be said about his appetites, as fit for giants as any, he’ll always be eager to eat, fight or fuck anything or anyone that calls his attention.“Are you gonna eat that?”

Throng’s Name: N/A

Flaw/s: N/A.

Derangements: N/A.

Appearance: Short that makes him look even younger than he should be, thin but athletic at the same time, lithe but obviously someone active, unkempt and yet strangely attractive (Cute some girls might say, handsome he would prefer, but the truth is somewhere in between, even if just that) even if in a wild way, dark hair undone in a small mane, deep and big, brown almost reddish eyes usually attentive for trouble, a single line scar running his left cheek giving a slight edge to his otherwise almost girly face.

Despite the cold, he barely takes notice thanks to his nature, even now preferring little clothing, worn out jeans and t-shirts, even worse sneakers, whatever he can steal or find, taking more only if he deems necessary ‘fitting in’.

When his disfigurement shows, his eyes are literally red, his skin grows paler, almost to the point of death, the scar on his cheek seems just barely bleed quite palpable darkness, his well defined body marked by the obvious places where his flesh was cut slashed open, not ripped or torn, not at least in the regular way, but cut wildly, shredded, broken to the bone, and is now hold together by this pitch black substance that sometimes acts solid as ebon and others drips like blood, every now and again a few ghostly lights flickering through it, as if there where eyes watching you from that abyss...

Background: Blood...

Hot, sticky, messy and beautiful, that’s the first thing he remembers, the echoes of the dying creature, the being that once was and would never be again, the last fading screams of many bodies being cast asunder, then suddenly, something like a song, something he can’t quite explain, something he can’t quite describe, it’s almost like a howl, and then it’s a real howl, the dying howl of an old stray dog.

Then it felt like being torn apart, but backwards, like if the blood that was everywhere suddenly pulled itself inwards, like invisible hands held him in place over something that shouldn’t be there, and that thing within him whined and growled, scratched to get out, bite and tore, but just couldn’t make it, the hands too strong, the ichors from the shadow too dense, too dark, so dark...

...Until it scabbed, like blood, until it healed or forgot how not to be as it was, and something got lost forever.

That was how he awoke, still surrounded by blood, still on a pool of it, but somehow less than it should had being, hands and feet wet in it as he tried to incorporate himself, his new eyes, as crimson as the liquid he struggled in, searching in the darkness of his surroundings, immediately meeting hers.

She was beautiful, or so she seemed in the contrast of lights, delicate features twisted in a mask of sadness, a soft and pale, almost infantile face caked with both blood and tears, dark hair a mess tightly held in the back, lips barely moving, trembling as she whispered “I’m so sorry...”

The very first thing Chaser found himself doing was indeed, running after her...

The few others like him he has met, point out he had a surprising control of himself to just stand and run, even more to try and chase someone, he doesn’t care, yet the young Created thinks he lost his mother that day, because she ran away from him none the less.

Maybe that’s why he named himself that; he is still hoping to catch up to her, somehow.

Never came back to the place of his ‘birth’, somehow he believes it’s better that way, too many horrors within that old dilapidated factory, too many to stir, he wishes he could forget where it’s at, but it was burned on his memory, on his instinct, sometimes, he has nightmares about going back there and making a new creature like himself, gifting the world with one more monster.

He was lucky it was too dark and too late for anyone to see him as he stumbled out of it, bloody and naked, calling for her.

After that, he had to teach himself to survive on the streets, between bums and thugs, a thin and almost too short and too pretty boy has to learn how to smash some faces unless he wants to find himself abused in more ways than one, he hadn’t even mastered speech when he bit off his first ear, broke his first fingers, punched out his first tooth.

Thing only got worse from there, without guidance, without knowing anything about his condition or nature, the little Promethean found himself having to learn everything on his own, through sheer trial and error, knowing himself through use of the fire within, dealing with the dark reflection of the world around him, helping where he could, as he thought he might, yet unknowingly provoking both the living and the unloving around him, quickly making enemies on both sides and finding himself overwhelmed by those of the flesh first, those he thought might had being his equals amongst the dispossessed throwing themselves at him, harassing him, taunting and mocking him, for the first time turning him into the chased, forcing him to run for his life, to climb to escape their pursue, and remain there for the safety it gave him.

He got used to the solitude of the high, dirty places of the city, where not even the worst went willingly, or at least, not often, too cold, to exposed, too dangerous, and still, for him, a place where he could finally find peace of his own, where even the spirits grew lighter, quieter, even if never silencing completely, while the others celebrated, he discovered something about himself, while they thought it was not worth it to go after him, not yet at least, he got time to find an opportunity and settle the score.

And settle it he did, Chaser fell on them one night, while most of them where too drunk and too cold, as they huddled close to the burning barrel to keep warmth, he came down cracking bones and freeing blood, smashing them with inhumanly strong hands and healing with practiced ease in front of their eyes for the first time, they were panicked, afraid and clumsy, there was nothing they could do to stop or even slow him down.

That was of course, until one of them, in the frenzy that was consuming them grabbed a burning sharpen stick from the barrel and wielded it against him, for the first time delivering a truthfully dreadful wound to the angry Titan, bearing the flaming broken thing and stabbing him with it with such surprising fury Chase found himself screaming and twisting in agony.

That might have being his end, but fate had something different for him in store...

As the lights on the street dimmed suddenly, the darkness and the blood suddenly pooling together into the gangly and twisted shape of a hell-hound, the biggest dog they had ever seeing, fur as dark as night sky, eyes red as bloody coals, long fangs already crimson and essence fat from the violence it had feasted upon.

By the end of the night, all of Chaser’s enemies lay broken, mauled by both him and the dark creature that presented himself as That-Which-Prowls-For-Blood (‘Prowler’ for short).Despite the Spirit’s urges to stay, Chase knew it was time to leave, if they didn’t run him off again, the police would; they’d have to find a new place...

Funny, that reminds me something another mortal said not too long ago...BEFORE I CLAWED HIS FUCKING FACE OFF!!

Appearance: A ghostly and bloody apparition, almost as if it is indeed made of just that, darkness a blood, the same thing that holds his ‘master’ together, the same pitch black abyss with eyes, only this one also has fangs...

His shape is pretty much that of a twisted mockery of a canine, a hell-hound of sorts, even going so far as to bare long ram-like horns, his body is thin and slick, muscles almost always drawn under the dark bloody fur, almost more a coyote then a wolf or even a dog, if such thing is possible, it walks on all fours but its front legs are slightly longer, paws twisted and long, almost resembling hands, even if armed with wicked talons, his posture is slightly hunched over, but its shape is long, its tail full and perpetually fading into the darkness.

Background: His origin is as much a mystery as Chaser’s, though the Ulgan secretly believes he might be what remained from the dog his ‘mother’ sacrificed to ‘remake’ him, somehow twisted and transformed by the crossing too, reshaped by the violence of the place that they both were born in, the hungry spirit remained dormant, gathering its strength and fattening himself with the bloody essence Chase caused around himself, until the Disquiet and Torment where just too great and the risk of losing its dear host made him awake and enjoy the battle too.